How many times have I gazed at your horizon? How many crashes of your surf against the turf of the New Jersey shoreline have I heard? How many white-foam crests have you crashed into me? How many times have I tasted your saline delight?
Sea gulls may cry. Salsa and marange may blast from speakers up and down a Sandy Hook beach. Umbrellas may crowd the sands like mushrooms on a waterdrenched log. No matter. Your sweeping waves, rippling waters, your sheer, mesmorizing immensity commands my attention. I almost hear your softest whisper from within the tumolt of your tides.
While I may travel to distant mountains, follow brooks through ancient forests, to lakes and rivers placid and fierce, I’ll always return to you. Would you have it any other way?
summer wind
the descending arc
of the sun
a sand castle’s remains
flow out with the tide
for 7th March 2020 prompt: Gerry Muse #197 (occasional tanka prose)By the Sea
and earthweal open link weekendย #10
Frank J. Tassone 
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